Connaire
by Ainin Grey
Summary: What if Meisner isn't dead?


As a huge fan of Martin Meisner in the Grimm Universe I was more than furios to watch him die. All the time I had the feeling that there was more to him than meets the eye. I never thought him to be a Grimm. Someone would have noticed and pointed it out. Follow my story to find out what I made of him.

The usual Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I just toss it around a bit.

Have fun.

Ainin Grey.

P.S. The Gaelic in my story was created via an internet translation tool. No warranty for any accuracy and hopefully no offence to a native speaker.

 **Connaire**

The neon tubes flickered hectically like suffering from a hiccup and waved a net of light and darkness within a second's change. Blood. No blood. Blood. No blood. Hope. Despair. Love. Death. Pain. Relief. Blood. No blood. Lost. So lost.

The electrical wires that had been ripped from their sockets danced along the walls emitting sparks. This cracking noise mixed with the low humming of the air vents was everything that could be heard because the dead did not provide any sound. The floors were covered by them. Men and Wesen. The dead did not provide a sound. They did not provide anything. All except for one.

Meisner's blood-soaked face was expressionless. His eyes stared into the nowhere. Hours had passed since the attack. First seconds, then minutes … stretching further into nothingness for the rest of the others. Time. Just a matter of time. At least for him. And a bullet to the heart of course.

Dying was easy. In the end it was. Inevitable. But coming back to life… There was a reason that none remembered being born. How would a consciousness cope with a trauma like that? Very badly. Dying was easy. Regaining life instead… Crawling back to the surface. Core shaking pain. Screams that would never be heard. Probably for the better.

Tick-tock. Hours first, then minutes and now only seconds left….

Blink. Slowly. Blink. Faster. Like a butterfly testing its wings before taking flight. Shaking. Electrical jolts connecting. Muscles, sinews, nerves recalling how to function. Inhale. Exhale. Blink. Shake. A moan that finally became a heavy groan. A hand clenched into a fist.

With his eyes aware now Meisner stared at the ceiling covered in hiccupping cold light. He couldn't tell what time it was. It didn't matter anyhow. Too late was too late. He slowly rolled over and tried to get up. Coming back to life was one thing – regaining strength another. He had to use the wall for support and he almost toppled over when the pain in his chest exploded.

Damn. He had forgotten to take that part into count. It had never happened like this before. A broken neck. Twice to be precise. A crushed windpipe. Suffocating was funny. He grinned sarcastically as these thoughts crossed his mind. He had always been careful. It was vital that none knew about the powers he had. His kind had been hunted and killed that for. Alchemists, scientists all in search for the one and only cure. The cure to death. But that was folly. He was not immortal. He was just not so easy to be killed.

Trying to fight the scream and not being very successful, Meisner waited until the bullet reemerged through the entry wound and fell to the ground with a clank. Gosh, that had felt like being shot again. But his breathing went quickly back to normal now that the foreign matter was gone. It would have been so much easier if Bonaparte had just suffocated him. Even with more damage done, coming back would have been faster. A bullet instead…

He thought about the irony of that moment. Though he'd been the only one to understand it. The desperate plea. The distorted offer. At least it had proved how good he'd been in hiding.

Wesen only. The powerful Zauberbiest Bonaparte had made sure of that.

Meisner didn't call Renard a friend. An associate perhaps. He had counted on him as an ally in midst the ranks of Black Claw. He'd been utterly wrong. But still to the last moment he had hoped for a change in the game. Hope, what a weakness. That would not happen again. Renard surely lost the way better man he'd been on their journey through Austria somewhere on the road, because that man would have shot Bonaparte instead. But power was a delicate thing. One step too close and it devoured you. Meisner knew the scent of it, he'd been at the threshold but he'd never stepped into the room. He felt sorry for the world, that Renard had not fought with more reluctance. Maybe he had not even tried, because a bastard he was. By blood and now by choice also.

Slowly Meisner walked closer to the desk. The whole equipment had been torn to pieces. Had BC taken all the information on their servers? He doubted it. The attack had been too swift, focused only on the kill. But maybe after he had died. In the wristband of his watch was a small USB-Stick hidden. He took one of the laptops from the floor and checked if it still worked. A tiny crack was on the screen but it should be enough. He opened the Ethernet and plugged in the USB-Stick. He secured the network on a hidden server. That would ring the alarm only louder. The other headquarters knew already. There had been no check-in from Portland today. They would do what they had to. No help would come. With a sigh he unleashed the malware from the stick that destroyed all their work and efforts, in case BC decided to come back for plunder and pillage.

This hide was lost but a new one could be built. Though that meant letting Trubel, Eve and even Burkhardt into his secret. Trubel had once suspected him to be a Grimm. He'd clearly shown her he was not, while they tangoed a Heftigauroch. He had explained his abilities with his time served in the Bundeswehr and he had even talked about the Special Forces. Nothing of that had been a lie. But the truth…. He had never told anyone. Not even Alice though he'd loved her.

Connaire. That was what he was. The women were called Morrigan and as it was with Hexenbiests and Zauberbiests; the female were the bearers of magic and only they carried the bloodline; the male were protectors in strength. Some achieved magic. He was not one of them. At least Meisner didn't think so. To be honest, he'd never tried.

But the most extraordinary in all of them was the aptitude to survive even a lethal blow. Something that worked its way through their blood. After the first death. A ritual usually performed when you turned 21. The whole clan gathered. A lot of singing, chanting and incantations. Quite archaic. You were stabbed in the heart with a dagger. Family and friends wove a net that caught your fall. You resurfaced from the spiritual depths with the full capability of a Morrigan or a Connaire.

Meisner's first death had been fairly different. He had not known any of his Wesen heritage for his mother had died with him still being a child and his human father had been unaware. Coraline Meisner had not survived the car crash because the iron rod that had fallen from the truck, her car had collided with, had decapitated her. That was the most thorough way to kill a Morrigan or a Connaire. But quite frankly, losing the head killed everyone properly, no matter what they were.

So, there had been no ritual, no safety. He'd been already close to 30 when it happened. A Hundjäger of the Verrat had managed to rip out his throat. That moment he had never forgotten and most certainly not the one when he had come back, blood soaked but intact; lying somewhere in the forests of the Czech Republic. But without a safety net... The souls of your family, your clan, connected … well, let's just say after that Meisner had gotten familiar with the meaning of Jekyll and Hyde. Thankfully he had not killed someone innocent in his absence of sanity. Not that he could take the credit for the passage back home. That had been Niamh. The Morrigan. Actually the only one he'd ever met so far. They all lived in secrecy for a reason. Hunted. Killed. Tormented. Centuries it had taken them to erase themselves out of Wesen minds. They'd become legends and myths. Tall tales even in the worst. Protection had driven them out of their dwellings and made them mingle with humankind. So the world was still ignorant of them what was for the better.

Niamh had found him. Being close by she had felt his death. So she had followed the trails he'd left in his furor. He had not understood what had happened to him. He'd never seen his Woge what would have explained a little; if it could actually be called that. His kind was unlike other Wesen. Maybe they even weren't. There was more to this world than just Wesen, Kehrseite or Royalty. The only thing that happened was a golden flicker in the eyes. If that had ever shown before none had noticed it or maybe they had thought that it had been an illusion made in the incidence of light. After being told he'd been careful with his gaze. This way he'd learned how to fight with closed eyes, only using his senses when he had to go deeply into battle.

It had unfortunately come out during the birth of Diana. Adalind had needed all the support he could give. He had made sure never to look her directly in the eyes, the half-light of the hut had helped, while he poured some of his strength into her. Had the baby felt it? Had she recognized him back then already for what he was? The flying books. Had she made her mother bite him? The wound had quickly healed and Adalind had luckily completely forgotten about it. Comprehensible after a rough birth like Diana's. Had the little one known about what he was? Even being unborn she already had had powers. There was a legend that said that Hexenbiests originated in Morrigan. That the possession of a Hexenbiest was the soul of a dead Morrigan. Could be. Or not. But Diana must have known about him. She'd tested him and decided to trust him.

Meisner blinked and went deeper into his memories. Dressed in black, her red hair burning like fire Niamh had cut herself in the palm and splashed the blood right into his face, mumbling something inaudible. That had knocked him out immediately. When he'd awoken he'd found himself in a small room tied to the bed.

When she had started to speak, his mind had almost exploded. "Ó na scáileanna beidh mé glaoch ort. Tar ar ais isteach sa solas. Éist. Cuairt. Bhraitheann[1]."

What had happened after that was still a bit hazy to him. Some sort of feverish dreams Niamh had never fully explained. For 3 days he had been falling in and out of clarity. Then the hammer over the anvil had stopped raging in his head. She had loosened the bonds. He had showered still shakily. She had served breakfast and then they had talked. She had not held anything back as far as she'd known the answers to his gazillions of questions.

That had been more than 10 years ago. He'd never seen her again after that. Though he'd heard of her. Whiteshadow. Not a real person. Just a whisper. Information. A ghost in the network. Why did he know it was her? Because of the symbol she always left.

A druid's sigil. She'd had worn it made out of bronze on a leather cord around her neck. Earth and moon connected in protection. It had magically gleamed on her bare skin when he'd touched it.

He had loved Alice. Alice that had been killed by the Verrat on behalf of the royals. But truly one he had ever only been with Niamh. Niamh of the clan O'Connor. His mother's maiden name had been Ryan. Coraline Ryan. She'd been a descendent from kings of the days of old.

While Meisner walked along the hallway he recalled what Niamh had told him about dying. That he should hide whenever there was a witness to it. Leave the old life and start a new one for the sake of protection. But could he do it? Could he really abandon his… friends for the safety of himself? In times like this? He was only one. He knew there were others of his kind. But he did not know how many or where they were. Did he really propose such a threat? Niamh was so much deeper nestled into everything when he assumed right. Much more in danger infiltrating BC. She could hide even less when they found her out.

For a second Meisner stopped. The what did not define all of the who he had become. Niamh did understand that, did she not? They'd lost the battle and maybe the war was at stake. But tides could turn. If you were not willing to risk something (even your life) for what you believed in, then how could you say that you truly believed in it? So it seemed they'd made their decision years ago.

He reached the underground garage. BC had not bothered to destroy the cars. After they killed everyone who was supposed to drive them? He got behind the wheel of the black SUV. The key was already in the ignition lock. Slowly he drove to the upper level and then out of the building. He knew where he had to go. Burkhardt's hide. If push came to shove they would seek refuge there.

Meisner pulled out into the traffic. He didn't know if he would be too late. BC had Adalind and Bonaparte had his ways to make someone talk. So if they were still alive he hoped (weakness or not) that he wouldn't be shot again when they caught sight of him. That would be unfortunate, really.

* * *

[1] Out of the shadows I call thee. Back into the light. Hear. See. Feel.


End file.
